Not to be confused with the Never-Ending Story stories.
The protagonist covered herself with a warm fuzzy blanket in the middle of the night, typing away what was surely to be the next greatest masterpiece- the Tesla of modern literature- the Burj Khalifa tower of novels- the Surface3 tablet of plot developments…
when she suddenly realized she had gone too far with the similes.
She put her phone under her pillow and stared off into the black roof.
It had been months since she had been inexplicably drained of any sort of inspiration.
Some nights, such as to-night, it would come in a sudden burst and she was certain this tall brick wall in her imagination-boot-camp would be conquered, she would rise above it, stand on the edge with her hands resting on her waist, look back at all the crumpled pieces of ripped notebook paper and laugh haughtily while the dawn of a new day broke in the horizon.
“I have done it! I and I alone have finished the unfinishable story!”
But before she knew it she would be fast asleep dreaming of a hurricane passing through her living room, worried sick whether she had left enough food at the cat-shelter. In New Zealand.
And so the unfinishable story remained unfinished.
She never let that get her down, though.
The next night, she would put that sour experience behind her and start a new unfinishable story.